Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

‘It’s all coming back to me now. I think you had a bit of a crush on me, Dulcie Fackrell. Is that so?’

This was mortifying stuff, but what could she do, throw a tantrum? Mentally gritting her teeth, Dulcie gave in with good grace.

‘Of course I did. I slaved over those letters,’ she protested. ‘I suppose you laughed your head off and showed them to all your friends, you heartless beast.’

‘Well, maybe. It was kind of funny at the time.’ Liam’s grin was apologetic. ‘I mean, you weren’t exactly Debbie Harry, were you?’

This was true, but Dulcie still wished he’d stop harping on about it.

‘I was fifteen years old.’

‘Little Dulcie Fackrell.’

‘Ross now,’ she reminded him. Then, in case he got the wrong idea, ‘I was married, but we’ve been separated for some time.’ It was Eddie Hammond’s turn to look amazed.

‘Some time?’ He raised his sandy eyebrows. ‘Darling, it’s only been a couple of months!’

Cheers, Eddie.

‘Ten weeks,’ said Dulcie. ‘Anyway, the marriage was over long before that. You know when things aren’t right.’

‘Hey, I hope you weren’t upset when I never wrote back,’ said Liam.

‘I can’t remember.’ Dulcie attempted the Liza Lawson smoulder. For good measure, she quivered a provocative lower lip. ‘But if I was, I forgive you.’

He grinned. ‘What a relief.’

‘We’ve both grown up since then.’

‘Well, you certainly have.’

The look he gave her this time was frankly appreciative. Hooray, thought Dulcie, getting somewhere at last. She hoped Imelda was watching and taking note.

‘Right,’ said Eddie Hammond, rubbing his hands together in that’s-enough-of-that fashion,

‘we’d better be moving on. Still plenty of people waiting to be introduced. Maybe catch you later, sweetheart.’

‘There is that small chance.’ Dulcie nodded vaguely. As ifa wagonload of wild horses stood a chance of dragging her out of the bar tonight.

‘See you around.’ Liam winked as he turned to leave.

‘If I do bump into you later,’ she casually called after him, ‘I’ll buy you a drink.’

‘This is going to be awful.’ Patrick spoke through gritted teeth as he and Bibi made their way up the crimson-carpeted staircase of the Aston Hotel, where the dinner dance was being held. They were supposed to be meeting their dates in the Kavanagh Bar, directly ahead of them. The place was heaving already. Patrick flinched as a girl with yellow teeth and popping-out eyes turned and beamed expectantly at him. Oh please God, don’t let that be her .. .

‘There they are,’ exclaimed Bibi, veering to the left and waving.

Patrick could hardly bear to look. He felt sick, and hopelessly unprepared. He glimpsed a flash of turquoise satin, a skinny girl plastered in more make-up than a Come Dancing contestant.

‘Not her.’ Observing the expression of undiluted horror on his face, Bibi pointed past the vision in turquoise. ‘The one in the red.’

Having performed the necessary introductions, Leo Berenger bore Bibi off to the bar, ostensibly to help him with the drinks but in reality to give Patrick and his daughter a few uninterrupted minutes together.

‘Look, I’m really sorry about this,’ sighed Claire Berenger as soon as they were alone. ‘I don’t know how much pressure you were put under to come here tonight, but I can guess. I’m thirty years old and my father’s beginning to panic.’ She paused and pulled a face. ‘Actually, that’s wrong. He’s been panicking for the last five years. As far as he’s concerned, his daughter is up there on that shelf, in serious need of dusting. I’m afraid I’m breaking his heart.’

Miraculously, Patrick felt himself begin to relax. Maybe the evening wasn’t going to be quite such an ordeal after all. Claire Berenger had a sense of humour. She was no dog either. With her glossy brown hair fastened in a plait, her pale skin and clear grey eyes, she exuded health and vigour. She was attractive in an unflashy way. Her red velvet dress was plain but close-fitting enough to reveal a good figure. She looked like an off-duty gym mistress. At school, thought Patrick, she would definitely have been house prefect.

Amused by Claire’s world-weary air, he said, ‘Has he done this before?’

She gave him a look.

‘My father’s mission in life is to get me up that aisle. Then, nine months later, into the nearest maternity ward. I’m afraid his idea of sexual equality is letting the little woman choose the colour of the wallpaper for the downstairs loo.’

‘I’m already married,’ Patrick apologised.

‘You are? Heavens, where’s your wife?’

‘Well, we separated a few weeks ago.’

Claire said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Then, keeping a straight face, she added, ‘Still, my father will be pleased. He probably thinks that’s my only hope now, catching some poor chap on the rebound.’

Patrick smiled, charmed by her self-deprecating manner. He had, after all, just emerged from a seven-year marriage. And they didn’t come much less self-deprecating than Dulcie.

‘Anyway,’ Claire glanced over her shoulder, checking that her father wasn’t making his way back, ‘I felt I should explain. Now you needn’t be embarrassed when he starts dropping hints the size of Land Rovers. All we have to do is humour him.’

She was an accountant, Patrick discovered over dinner. And an excellent cook, Leo Berenger informed him proudly. Oh yes, she knew how to cook, his daughter. She would make some lucky man a truly wonderful wife.

As their coffee was being served, Claire leaned over and whispered in Patrick’s ear, ‘He’s slipping. He hasn’t told you yet about my child-bearing hips.’

She was wearing Chanel 19. Patrick breathed it in.

‘We shouldn’t be making fun of him. He’s just a proud father.’

‘Who can’t wait to be a proud grandfather,’ murmured Claire. ‘Go on, I dare you. Tell him you’ve had the snip.’

Chapter 19

Dulcie was busy being vivacious at the bar when Liam McPherson finally made his way over to her corner of it.

He appeared before her, wearing a white Nike tennis shirt and black tracksuit bottoms and looking — if it were possible — even more tanned and super-fit than he had earlier.

‘We meet again,’ he told Dulcie with a grin.

‘Amazing. Aren’t some coincidences just too spooky for words?’

‘What about that drink you promised me?’

‘I lied,’ said Dulcie. ‘I don’t buy men drinks. They buy them for me.’

Liam laughed.

‘You have changed. You always used to buy me drinks.’

Dulcie remembered running to the corner shop, counting out her precious pocket money and dashing back to the tennis court where Liam and his friends lay sprawled on the grass, waiting.

‘Cherry Corona doesn’t count.’

His tone was affectionate.

‘You were a funny little kid.’

She ran an index finger idly around the rim of her almost empty glass.

‘Like I said, I’ve grown up.’

One eyebrow was raised. Liam smiled his havoc-making smile.

‘Indeed. And I’m beginning to think we have some serious catching-up to do.’

While Dulcie’s stomach was still churning with pleasure, he attracted the barman’s eye and had her vodka and tonic topped up. Somewhat alarmingly, he ordered a pint of orange juice for himself.

‘So tell me what you get up to these days. You said you were divorced, didn’t you?’ Liam looked sympathetic. ‘Any children?’

Dulcie loved the way he spoke to her, giving her his undivided attention. It was exhilarating, being made to feel you were the most fascinating and desirable girl in the world, after years of neglect.